


The Madman and the Patriot

by lesnuffles



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4991395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesnuffles/pseuds/lesnuffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire could not help but notice that he was indeed very beautiful, the kind of beauty that you don't expect to see often. Less than ever, in a psychiatric clinic filled with people who had wasted their lives in a way or another. But if Enjolras was some sort of exception to the rule, a miracle fallen out of nowhere, Grantaire surely wasn't going to question it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Madman and the Patriot

###### I. Joly

Even though the sun was shining bright, outside, the room where Combeferre entered was dark, lightened up only by a thin line of sunshine piercing through the split of the window left open. That didn't really surprise him – he just sighed slightly, his eyes already wondering in the direction of the bed, in the right corner of the room, where he knew he'd find him. He was right. 

“Good morning. How are you, today, Joly?”

There was a muffled noise of someone curling up between the sheets, and a weak voice answered, so quietly that Combeferre would have missed it, if he hadn't been so used to it.

“Not very well, doctor.”

“Mm. Thought so.”

He took a step towards the window at the end of the room, which he opened, letting the sunlight flood into the white walls of the room. Joly, sat on his bed, pressed his knees against his chest, with a little grimace. He didn't say anything, though, and let Combeferre sit next to him.

“Why not, Joly?”

Joly bit his lower lip, sniffling. “I think I'm ill. For real, this time,” he said, and he took a deep breath, looking attentively at him. “I am becoming blind. I can't see things and the room seems shaky, and I've got this massive headache, as if my head were about to explode, and–”

“Well, let's check it out, alright?”

Joly shut up almost immediately, opening his eyes wide. A light veil of melancholy clouded Combeferre's expression, as he pretended to examine one of Joly's eye and the other, just to give his response later, his eyes fixed on his terrified glare.

“You're all right, Joly. As always. You have nothing to worry about, your sight is fine.”

Joly relaxed, with a deep sight of relief, and was able to put together a weak smile. “Well, I surely am better than Bossuet, doctor.”

“Yes? Why is it so?” Combeferre asked, lowering his voice. 

Joly lowered his gaze and shrugged, and he was back to looking scared. “He was talking nonsense again. About the things he'll do as soon as he's out of here. You shouldn't let him out of here, you know, most of those seemed dangerous and he didn't listen when I told him.”

He smiled, placing a hand on Joly's. Physical contact, in a way, seemed to calm him down, Combeferre had learnt. “We'll take care of him, don't you worry.” He took a little pause, before going on. “What about Grantaire?”

Joly lifted his eyes. There was a reason Combeferre always asked him about his friends, and it was because it seemed therapeutic for Joly to focus on his mates' health instead of his own. As a matter of fact, when he started to talk, his voice seemed to gain strength, for much it was his urge to be understood.

“R is not very well, doctor, I am worried. He never, ever, ever talks, not even to me. Or to Boss. He didn't want to join us in the common room, you know, yesterday, and I think he's still thinking about dying. Not in the way I am thinking about dying, he seems happy about it, like he's _waiting_ – can you take care of him, too?”

Combeferre nodded, and lightly patted his arm, before standing up. “I'll have a look at him right now. Don't you worry, alright? You're fine.”

Joly lowered his eyes, pulling his sheets closer. “Yes, doctor,” he muttered, in the same way he said that everyday, not believing not even a bit of his words.

 

###### II. Courfeyrac

Courfeyrac was crying. Not in a big, noisy way, not with sobbing or weeping, but there surely were tears in his eyes, and Jehan seemed to notice, because he tightened his grip on his hand, pressing it slightly.

“He will be fine.”

The doctor seemed to have noticed, as well, because she raised her eyes towards him, and smiled as she spoke. The only one who seemed not aware of it, in fact, was Enjolras, who was standing a bit further, his gaze lost over the sight shown by the open windows.

Courfeyrac nodded, sniffling slightly, and he couldn't help but reaching out with on hand to take the edge of his friend's jacket.

“Enj–?”

He noticed that in delay. It took him a couple of seconds, then he startled, and finally looked down to him, seemingly puzzled.

“Yes?”

An expression of hidden relief lit up on Courfeyrac's weepy smile, as he rubbed his eyes with a side of his free hand.

“We have to go, now. You know – Jehan and I... but we'll come and visit you soon, alright? You don't have to worry about that. We'll see soon.”

Enjolras nodded, but there was something in his eyes vaguely lost, as if he was missing the main point.

Courfeyrac bit his lips, nervous. “You'll be fine here. You'll see.”

He nodded again, without saying a word. Before he realized it, Courfeyrac had let go Jehan's hand and was hugging him tightly, his face hiding in Enjolras' shirt.

“Please be okay soon,” he muttered, but once again, Enjolras just looked down at him, exchanging the grip just as it was the right thing to do, his light eyes opened wide. Courfeyrac let him go, and now there was a tear running down his cheek. Jehan pressed together is lips, sniffling, and took again Courfeyrac's hand.

“See you soon, Enj.”

Enjolras stared at him, his pale lips slightly opened. When he spoke, it was when Courfeyrac was already at the door, his hand on the handle.

“What do you mean, _here_?”

 

###### III. Combeferre

Unlike Joly's room, Grantaire's was fully lit up. The windows were wide open, and they probably had stayed so the whole night, since the first time Combeferre had opened them, the day before, because it was freezing inside. Grantaire himself seemed not to have moved an inch from his position, during the night, as he was sat on a corner of his bed, his head resting on the wall behind him.

“Good morning, doctor.”

Grantaire's voice was harsh and low, but Combeferre took it as a good sign the fact that he had talked first, and moved a few steps closer, to sit on the metal chair that was placed right in front of the empty desk.

“Good morning, Grantaire. How are you feeling?”

His question was welcomed by a total silence from the other. He surely had understood, because he was staring at Combeferre with a sort of challenging expression. It only lasted few seconds, though, because shortly after, Grantaire shrugged and lowered his eyes.

Combeferre paused, in case he wanted to add something, then spoke again. “I talked to Joly.”

“So what?”

“He's worried about you.”

Grantaire snorted. “Breaking news.”

Combeferre relaxed on the chair, trying to lease the tension that those tit-for-tats always created in the room. “He says you think a lot about dying, lately.”

A crooked smile appeared on the other's lips. “Don't we all, doctor?”

“And that you didn't want to join them in the common room,” Combeferre added. The fact that Grantaire seemed so talkative was positive, though, he had to stay careful and not let himself drag down to his speeches.

“I am trying to stay positive, doctor.” The amount of sarcasm in his voice was overwhelming. “A bunch of lunatics stuffed together can hardly help.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “What about your friends?”

“Oh, I was speaking exactly of them.”

Combeferre would have insisted, if he hadn't known that Grantaire wasn't really speaking his mind. He knew for a fact that he was just playing a part, and insisting that way was only going to make him more stubborn about his position.

“You should go and see new people, then,” he said, instead, with a little smile on his lips. “Meet new people. Talking with them.”

“Last time I tried, couple of months ago, that Bahorel tried to smash my head with a chair,” Grantaire said, with a thin irony still recognizable in his tone. “Do you really think of that as wise?”

“You'd be surprised about how much he's learned to control himself, by now.” Combeferre leaned back on his chair, fixing his glasses on his nose.

“I think I'll pass.”

“There's new people, as well.” Combeferre added, looking attentively at the other's reaction. “Give it a try. Just one more time.”

Grantaire grimaced, with a shrug. “What will I get?”

Combeferre paused for a second, before speaking. “Don't you want to draw again?”

A sparkle of excitement lit up his eyes, but Grantaire was quick in hiding it. “I lost all my inspiration, and my talent as well, I'm afraid.”

“Go to the common room. Socialize. And I'll talk the responsible into letting you use a pencil again.” Combeferre stood up, indicating their meeting was over, and stepped towards the door.

When he was about to go out, Grantaire spoke again.

“I'll see what I can do, doctor.”

 

###### IV. Enjolras

Grantaire swore to himself that he was sure he was never going to experience a feeling as strong as the one that struck him when he saw the blond guy sat at the window. What he knew for sure, was that it wasn't _earthly_ : the way he was slightly frowning, how his hair perfectly curled up, tickling the back of his pale neck, or simply his expression, so fierce and full of a sort of dignity, so awfully contrasting with the vague gaze of the other people in the common room.

“Hey, there, Apollo, what’re you looking at?”

He felt ashamed of his words as soon they left his mouth. God, how was it possible that someone so distant, so tragically different from everything Grantaire was, could even considerate the possibility of looking down at him and, maybe, exchange a word with him, with such a rude approach? There was no way – and in facts, it seemed as if the stranger didn't even hear Grantaire's words, for he didn't move an inch.

There's something terrible that grows up out of loneliness, which is the unlearning of human contact. When you isolate yourself that much, your whole being starts to revolt at the idea of interaction: and so was Grantaire, with the only difference that if he never minded before, now the inability to communicate frustrated him. In a way, it was almost a fortune, because he attributed his failure to his ineptitude – and not to the fact that the new guy wasn't, in facts, interested. That gave him the stubbornness to try again.

“I'm talking to you, Goldilocks. You there?”

Eventually, the stranger turned his head, looking extremely annoyed. He frowned, when he saw the triumphant grin on Grantaire's face.

“What?”

“Oh, you can hear, then, good” Grantaire took one step towards him. Joly and Bossuet, who were sitting next to him, noticed, and followed him with their eyes – but at that moment, he couldn't care less; his attention was completely focused on the stranger. “What's your problem?”

“My _problem_?”

“Yes, why are you here?”

The stranger grimaced, and now there was no doubt he was feeling extremely annoyed by the lack of comprehension. He frowned, squinting his light eyes. “I do not understand.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Are you dumb? Is that why they brought you here? That would be a pity – and quite stereotypical, for that matter.”

That affirmation seemed to bother him the most: he finally fully turned towards Grantaire, slightly tilting his head at one side. “If you're only here to have fun, you can go away. I'm busy.”

“Busy?” Grantaire's grin widened. “Hey, what's your name?”

“Enjolras.”

“Well, _Enjolras_ , they're not that much to do, here, to be honest, so you can pay attention to me for one–”

“What do you mean, here?”

Grantaire opened his eyes for a while, and his smile flickered for one moment. “You... don't know where you are?” he asked, slowly.

“Paris, France.” Enjolras answered, and there was no hesitation on his face.

“Yes, well, not going to argue on that.” Grantaire was frowning, and slowly sat in front of the other, observing him. He could not help but notice that he was indeed very beautiful, the kind of beauty that you don't expect to see often. Less than ever, in a psychiatric clinic filled with people who had wasted their lives in a way or another.

If Enjolras was some sort of exception to the rule, a miracle fallen out of nowhere, Grantaire surely wasn't going to question it.

“What were you busy doing?” he just asked, relaxing a bit his tone. Enjolras seemed to notice that there wasn't hostility in his words, but he still looked on his guard, as if he wouldn't let out anything compromising.

“Planning,” he answered, observing Grantaire closely.

Grantaire couldn't have been more fascinated. There was nothing ironic in the way he crookedly smiled, almost catching his breath in the suspense. “Planning what?”

“A revolution.”

They both could distinctively heat the sound of Joly gasping in the back. They both decided to ignore it. Now there was true admiration, in Grantaire's eyes, that he opened wide, staring at him. “A revolution? Seriously? In here? How are you going to do that?”

“I can do that from here.”

“Why?”

Enjolras' look seemed to have gained confidence. That gave him even a fiercer gaze that he pointed directly towards Grantaire – who felt completely stunned, like that looked had pierced right through him. “Why? Why do you think? Do you find this world a good place to live in?”

“Hell no.” His question was probably rhetorical, but Grantaire couldn't help with answering in a hoarse whisper.

“We need a change.” The more he spoke, the more it seemed as if Enjolras were playing a part – a part that he knew very well and that suited him perfectly, but still, just a part in a play. “A strong change; we need someone who can shake the things from down below, we need this world to take a strong turn, because now, it's walking towards his end.”

The passion with which he put together was so strong – so unexpected, that Grantaire ended up looking at him in silent admiration, in the same way you'd stare at a natural phenomenon such as a thunderstorm or an earthquake. “And you're... are going to do that?”

“Not on my own,” Enjolras stated. He had lifted his eyes and was staring at the window again, and seemed to have completely forgotten who he is was talking to. “We all must join. But someone has to make it start, someone has to raise the people, and if no one is going to do that – I will.”

He paused, and his eyes seemed lost. He was talking to himself most definitely, now, and he seemed to be seeing something that was invisible to everyone else, over those windows. He lowered his voice, as he continued. “Sometimes violence is required. I don't condone it. But it's necessary. People on high... they don't listen until they feel threatened. But we all must do what we have to do, and if that's what I'll have to... there will be blood, there will be victims: there always are. But we're going to fight, we're fighting until this becomes a kind of world people will want to live in.”

Silence was made all around, now. Everybody was listening, and as soon as Enjolras noticed, he seemed lost: he looked around, didn't recognize the faces, got scared. He had stood up: he sat down again, lowering his gaze, confused.

Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look. “I don't think he knows where he is,” Joly whispered, very low, and Bossuet nodded.

“We should tell him,” Bossuet added.

Grantaire wasn't listening to them. His eyes were fixed on Enjolras', as he was trying to find again the flame that seemed to have lit him up just moment before. He needed that light, he needed that conviction, he discovered, for when Enjolras spoke, he had felt better. He felt alive, and he found himself thirsty of that kind of feeling. So he leaned towards him, and spoke in a low whisper, his eyes staring at him.

“Is there a place for me in your revolution?” Grantaire muttered, and Enjolras' face lightened up in a smile.

 

###### V. Grantaire

There are certain longings that save us and certain ones able to destroy us. Grantaire's craving for Enjolras was the first kind: Enjolras' need of a change was the second one. He only lived up in his fantasy: as he spoke of gunshots and change, of the people and the brotherhood, when he looked outside and seemed to see his France in a way Grantaire never saw it, then Enjolras was alive.

He seemed to take strength from his own words: he insisted and he raised his voice, he smiled and his blue eyes lit up in burst of joy, when he spoke of the world that were soon to be. His excitement was Grantaire's very lymph: when they were together – and that happened more and more often, after that day, he seemed to drink that excitement from Enjolras' very lips: and every day Grantaire felt stronger, better, and with a strong desire to keep feeling better and sane, for Enjolras, for tasting better his whole being, for living in that world the other was so keen on talking about.

But every blessing, he knew, came with a curse: and Grantaire's was that Enjolras was not to be his, for as soon as the latter stopped talking, as soon as he fell down from his reveries, from his imaginary wars, barricades and fights, hitting reality as the tough hurdle that it was, everything of him was lost. Enjolras became every time more distant, more silent, and when he looked down at him as if it were the first time he saw him. 

The first time Grantaire kissed him, Enjolras was startled: the second time, he kissed him back, and Grantaire felt a wild happiness that had been unknown to him for too long of a time. If they had met somewhere else, if things were different, Grantaire thought he would have treated Enjolras differently. He would have adored him like a god, he would have been delicate and careful, idolizing every inch of his pale, soft skin. 

But knowing that every moment Enjolras was about to slip down from his hands, knowing that every second he was going to forget him, his kisses, his words – whispered against his ears, Grantaire became desperate. He pressed his lips harder and harder on Enjolras', his eyes closed to not see the moment everything was going to vanish, and he talked, he talked, he constantly talked and made him talk.

If indulging on his fantasies was the only way to stay with Enjolras, Grantaire was going to humour him in every way he was capable of: they kissed, and they spoke of revolution; Enjolras' words were repeated over and over again by Grantaire, as he tightened his grip on his thin body. Every time seemed the last one, and every time lasted too quickly.

He couldn't go on like this. Enjolras became Grantaire’s first and only obsession, and one he was never able to catch. How ironical, falling again in a spiral of happiness and dread, just in the same place where he had sent to exit from his last addiction! Touching the sky just to realize it was something he could never have.

One afternoon, in one of their stolen session of kisses, hidden behind a corner, the thought of losing him were just too much. Grantaire kissed him, his fingers twirled in Enjolras' curls, and he felt tears running down his face.

“...For a better world... for a better day,” he was whispering, and those words made Enjolras smile and kiss him back, and Grantaire knew he would have give everything he had for it to be for real.

“Enjolras–”

He whispered, and for a second, as the other lowered his gaze to look at him, Grantaire thought that maybe this time Enjolras was _seeing_ him. Being there, really there, in that clinic, with him, and that it was going to be real and concrete; not a dream, not a fantasy, not a play. Just Enjolras and him, in that awful reality that was the only thing they'd got.

“I love you. Don't go.” 

The words Grantaire muttered, those words that he was saying for the very first time, were shaky and hesitant. Enjolras opened his eyes wide, and Grantaire pressed again his lips on his mouth, for he was crying again.

“I need you here. Don't go. Don't – stay here.”

He couldn't go on kissing him. He just let go, resting his forehead on Enjolras shoulder, shaking slightly. Grantaire felt his arms moving on his back; and then, before realizing it, Enjolras was holding him, and for one time Grantaire felt safe, he felt right, and he felt as he was really feeling Enjolras' body against his own.

Then, it was over. Enjolras' grip on his back released: he raised his gaze, looking for Grantaire's eyes, and when he found them, it seemed again that he couldn't really focus on them. He frowned, as Grantaire stepped back, and for a moment, their eyes crossed. 

Then, Enjolras winked, and he was lost and confused again.

“Where is _here_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday gift for **Lee**! Have a beautiful day, dearie. ~
> 
> (A big thank you to **redherring** , who beta'd this a the speed of light: couldn't have done without you!)


End file.
